


Permanent Promises

by AU Mer-Maid (neonstardust)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Art, Body Writing, Don't Let The Tags Fool You This Is Safe For Work, Drawing, Established Relationship, Kinktober 2019, Post-Canon, Post-Canon - Aged Up Characters, Roommates, Tattoos, Wholesome Safe For Work Content In My Kinktober? Heck Yeah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-16 05:00:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21265463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neonstardust/pseuds/AU%20Mer-Maid
Summary: In the end, it takes two hours of scrubbing to get all of the marker off their skin, but Shirabu doesn't mind, so long as Yahaba is there suffering the consequences with him.In which Yahaba wants a tattoo, and the trial run gets a little out of hand.





	Permanent Promises

**Author's Note:**

> Kinktober Day 31 - Prompt: Free Day - Body Writing

Shirabu notices the heart instantly. It hadn’t been there that morning, but when Yahaba changed into his gym clothes to go for a run, a red heart decorated his shoulder. Shirabu says nothing. Four days pass, and the heart fades away.

That should be the end of it.

With Yahaba, it never is.

Shirabu walks into the living room to find him with his sleeve rolled up, a marker in his hand. “What are you doing?”

Yahaba shrugs. “Thinking about getting a tattoo. What do you think? A star or, uh...” He frowns. “I can’t draw much else like this.”

“You’re not giving yourself a tattoo,” Shirabu says.

“No.” Yahaba waves the marker as he speaks. “I’ll go to a professional. I just wanna test out how I like one before, you know, gettin’ one.”

Satisfied, Shirabu sits next to him on the couch.

Yahaba struggles to twist his arm into a better position. “I’m thinking a star, today.”

“What tattoo do you want?”

He shrugs, frowning when he loses the angle he had been going for. “I dunno. Something cool, I guess.”

Shirabu takes the marker from him. “A star isn’t cool.”

“It could be,” Yahaba argues but turns for Shirabu to draw on him.

The marker moves smoothly across his skin. Shirabu curves it along his arm, stretching up near his shoulder. Before long, a small picture takes form.

Yahaba frowns at it. “No.”

“Dragons are cool,” Shirabu says, capping the marker.

“Yeah, but not when they’re small.” He twists his arm around for a better view. “This is too... cute.”

Shirabu roll his eyes. Biting the cap off the marker, he writes “not cute” on Yahaba’s cheek.

“I have work tomorrow,” he whines. Fishing his phone out, he uses the camera lense to look at his face and frowns. “You sneaky goblin man.” He rubs his thumb against the letters. “This’ll take ages to get off.”

“It’s fine.” Shirabu leans back into the couch. “Everyone there already knows you ain’t cute.”

“Rude.” Snatching the marker out of his hand, Yahaba climbs onto his lap. Shirabu tries to push him off, but Yahaba holds tight, pressing the marker against Shirabu’s cheek.

“Write something stupid, and I kill you,” Shirabu hisses. He pushes harder, but Yahaba hooks an arm around his neck, his hand pressed into Shirabu’s head to keep him still.

Finished, Yahaba kisses his handiwork.

“The hell did you write?”

Yahaba holds up his phone. The kanji appears backwards, but Shirabu makes out the words “salty loser.” Shirabu pinches him.

“Ow!”

“Jerk.” Shirabu grabs for the marker, but Yahaba holds it out of his reach.

“Hang on.” Tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth, he draws something on Shirabu’s other cheek. With nothing left to lose, he let’s him, trying to follow the dips and curves of the marker in his head. “There.” Yahaba pulls out his phone and holds it up. “Better?”

A row of hearts decorates the space beneath his eye. Shirabu traces them gently. “This doesn’t make up for what you did.”

Yahaba quickly adds another heart to the row. “Does that make up for it?”

“... Yes.”

Leaning forward, Yahaba kisses each heart one by one, until Shirabu’s sure his face is warm enough to color all of them bright red. Mercilessly, he shoves Yahaba off him.

“Take off your shirt,” he commands. Standing up, he walks to his room and gathers more markers. He’s built up a good supply between Yahaba’s impromptu calligraphy phase and his own art endeavors, ranging from commissions all the way to a strange two a.m. desire to draw a sentient pancake in neon colors for a birthday party he did not attend.

Returning to the living room, he finds Yahaba sprawled out shirtless on the couch, one hand on his hip. “Paint me like one of your French girls.”

Shirabu throws the box of markers at him. “You're insufferable.”

Rubbing his head, Yahaba offers the box back. “Not even a little bit sufferable?”

“Never.” He yanks him to stand up.

Yahaba smirks. “Good.”

Rolling his eyes, Shirabu sets to work. He starts at his chest, one hand splayed over Yahaba’s heart to hold him steady. His skin feels warm, the curve of his ribs different from the flat surface of the paper he’s used to. A head takes form. He fills in the eyes, detailing overlapping scales.

The whiskers dip down, and Shirabu gets down on his knees as he moves down Yahaba’s torso. His hand ghosts over his side, and Yahaba giggles, struggling to keep still. “It tickles.”

The dragon circles beneath his arm, sprawling across his back. Firm muscles create a broad drawing surface, but Yahaba wiggles at the slightest touch. He’s far too ticklish to consider getting a tattoo. Stretching up, Shirabu presses kisses along the sensitive skin of his spine until Yahaba throws his head back in laughter.

The dragon dips down lower, and Shirabu spins Yahaba around until he’s faced with his stomach. He curves the body beneath his belly button. As he fills in the scales, Yahaba bites down on his giggles, gripping Shirabu’s shoulders for support.

“Hold still.”

“It _tickles_.”

“Oh? Like this?” He wiggles his fingers up Yahaba’s sides, watching as he doubles over in laughter. His face turns rosy, cheeks flushed. Shirabu pulls him down closer until they’re both on their knees, the marker inking flowers across his cheekbones, connecting constellations in the freckles along his throat.

Yahaba holds Shirabu loosely, laughter subsiding. He traces circles into his waist with his thumbs. “You didn’t finish the dragon.”

“I’m not drawing a dragon on your ass.”

Yahaba hums. Compliantly, he tilts his head down when Shirabu nudges him, allowing him to add a star at the corner of his eye. “Write something meaningful,” he says.

Shirabu wraps the flowers in flowing ivy, the vines dangling down beneath them. “The hell does that mean?”

“I dunno.”

“Then do it yourself.” Finished with the ivy, he moves to Yahaba’s collar bone, but he pulls the marker out of his hand before he can start.

“I will,” he says, the marker already pressed to Shirabu’s neck. The tip moves not with the twist and turns of a drawing, but the simple strokes of kanji.

“If you write something stupid-”

“I won’t,” he says.

Shirabu knows he will, but he believes him anyway, angling his head back to give him more room. He’s not a trusting person. He doesn’t take advice from strangers, and he covered his head every time Goshiki served until the day they graduated. But trusting Yahaba comes as naturally as breathing, and when Yahaba tugs at the hem of his shirt, Shirabu pulls it off without question.

“Lay down.” Yahaba shakes the marker. Shirabu stares at him flately until he hands him a pillow.

“What are you writing?” He lays down with his head on the pillow.

Yahaba straddles his hips. “You’ll find out.” The marker moves in rhythmic strokes along his chest. The ink is cold, but the motion is soothing. Closing his eyes, he almost thinks he could fall asleep to this. To the warmth and the quiet. To the safety of having Yahaba watch over him.

Yahaba adds another heart to his cheek. “You still with me?”

Shirabu hums.

“I’m almost done,” he says. Glancing down at his chest, Shirabu sees he doesn’t have much room left. Entire sentences cover his skin, growing into paragraphs. They trail down his stomach, the marker stopping only when it reaches the top of Shirabu’s jeans.

“You went overboard,” Shirabu says.

Yahaba points at the dragon taking up over half of his chest. “Look who’s talking.”

Torn between knowing what the words say and lying on the floor for the rest of eternity, Shirabu doesn’t move, weighing his options, until Yahaba tugs him to get up, pushing him in front of a mirror.

Shirabu squints at the backward letters. “This will take a while.”

Yahaba leans into Shirabu’s back, resting his chin on his shoulder. “I can wait.”

“I don’t even want a tattoo, stupid.” Shirabu tilts his head back, starting with his neck.

_I love you._

His gaze drops to his chest.

_I love you._

_I didn’t love you at first sight, but I’ve loved you every moment since then._

_I lied. I loved you at first sight, too._

_I loved you before I knew I was in love with you._

_I love you more than volleyball._

_I will love you tomorrow and all the tomorrows after that until the calendar runs out of days and the factories run out of calendar making supplies and the earth runs out of factories and then the tomorrow after that one, too._

_I love you more than words can describe, but I love you enough to try anyway, as many times as it takes._

Shirabu’s heart swells. The sentiments continue, the letters growing smaller to make all the words fit. I love you’s swim in his head. His chest feels warm, too warm to breathe.

“Why?” Shirabu asks. He doesn’t know what answer he’s looking for. Why he wrote all of this? Why he loves him? Why can’t he spell calendar correctly? His head feels too dizzy to sort it out.

Yahaba knows just how to answer anyway. “Because I don’t want you to ever forget it.”

“I’m not getting this tattooed on me.”

“Good.” He nuzzles into Shirabu’s neck. “Then I can write more. As many times as I need to.”

“There can’t be anything left to write,” Shirabu mutters.

Yahaba trails his hand up Shirabu’s spine. “There’s more.” He traces a finger along his shoulder blade. “I can start right here.”

“You’re crazy.”

“For you.”

“Nerd.”

“_Your_ nerd.”

The marker dangles in Yahaba’s hand. Taking it from him, Shirabu turns and draws two last words beneath Yahaba’s collar bone, right above his heart. _Shirabu Kenjirou_.

“Yeah. My nerd.”


End file.
